


Witcher Fictober 2020

by madeofconstellations



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bodyguard, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bodyguard AU, Collars, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Fictober, Fluff and Angst, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Apologizes, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Grand Gestures, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, Kidnapping, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pre-Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Sickfic, So far we have: - Freeform, Whumptober 2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-03
Updated: 2020-10-06
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:21:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26802109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madeofconstellations/pseuds/madeofconstellations
Summary: Jaskier laughs nervously, but Geralt can smell his normal chamomile and earthy scent become barely tinted with fear as he tries and fails to edge around Geralt once again. “Scoundrel, maybe, but miscreant seems a bit much.”The lord sneers and reaches forward, his other hand going to the dagger at his hip. Jaskier’s eyes widen and his scent sharpens bitterly as the man grabs his arm.“I know it was you, you-”He doesn’t get to finish his sentence, finding himself suddenly in the face of a snarling witcher reaching for his swords. Geralt didn’t want to have to cut him down, but seeing him lay hands on Jaskier-“Darling, wait! There’s really no need for that. ” Jaskier grabs Geralt’s arm desperately, and they both stop to look at him.  “I’m sorry, sir, but you really must have the wrong person. This is my, ah, husband.”What. The fuck?
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 14
Kudos: 177





	1. 1. Fake Dating

**Author's Note:**

> Our table of contents so far:  
> 1\. Fake Dating  
> 2\. Kidnapped/Collars  
> 3\. Grand Gestures  
> (Day Four: Presumed Dead was posted separately due to length)  
> 4\. Bodyguard AU
> 
> I can't promise that I'll get to all 31 days, but everything I do get to will be posted here!

Geralt is in a good mood when it happens, as much as he can be. He’s strolling through the marketplace on a pleasantly sunny afternoon, his coin purse sitting heavy on his hip- heavy enough that he allows himself to relax in this leisure time rather than searching for another contract. The town they’ve decided to stay in, just east of Vizima, has been refreshingly amicable to Geralt’s presence- something he has Jaskier to thank for, he’s sure.

So, Geralt is in a good mood. He thinks that this might change soon, however, when he hears the very distinct and familiar sound of Jaksier running through the crowd like a madman towards his general direction. Geralt sighs and looks up at the sky, savoring his last seconds of peace. Then Jaskier is pushing past the woman next to him, almost moving past Geralt altogether. He reaches out and grabs him by the scruff of his honey gold doublet. Jaskier’s eyes widen and he briefly kicks out, but as soon as he recognizes Geralt he slumps in relief. 

“Geralt!” He says brightly. “I’ve been looking for you.” He squirms out of his grasp and quickly maneuvers behind him, eyes searching the crowd as he hides.

“What did you do?” Geralt growls. He has his suspicions; if he focuses on where Jaskier is staring, he can hear the quick footsteps of someone giving chase.

“Ah, well, you know-” Jaskier stumbles over his words. “Met a lovely young woman, eyes greener than the most beautiful fields you’ve ever seen, and-”

“Jaskier.”

“And, she is married, as it turns out. Probably should’ve guessed, with the way she was sneaking me around like she didn’t want to be seen. Thought she was just, I don’t know, setting the mood or something.”

Geralt is, as happens often with Jaskier, overcome with the desire to pinch the bridge of his nose. “One week, Jaskier.”

Jaskier huffs, coming out from his hiding spot in favor of putting his hands on his hips. “I beg your pardon?” 

“Can we not go one week with you keeping it in your pants? This is a nice town, and I’d rather not be run out of it so soon.”

“Well, we’re in agreement on that! We just need to convince-”

The crowd parts as Jaskier’s portly pursuer- a lord, based on the way he dresses- makes himself known, red in the face from exertion and anger. 

“-this gentleman here,” Jaskier finishes. 

“You!” The man shouts. “You’re the bard from this morning! You think you can just run away?”

The lord steps forward, hand going to his hip, and Geralt frowns and puts himself between them. The lord stops his wild gesticulation and looks Geralt up and down as if he’s only just noticed him, shrinking back when their eyes meet. 

“Is there a problem?”

The intimidation tactic works until Jaskier peeks over Geralt’s shoulder, at which point the lord understandably becomes enraged. “This man, he- I saw him running from my wifes bed chambers, the scoundrel. He is a crook, a lowlife, and a _miscreant!”_ He punctuates each word with a point and a step, coming closer to Jaskier until they’re almost nose-to-nose.

Jaskier laughs nervously, but Geralt can smell his normal ambrosial earthy scent become barely tinted with fear as he tries and fails to edge around Geralt once again. “Scoundrel, maybe, but miscreant seems a bit much.”

The lord sneers and reaches forward, his other hand going to the dagger at his hip. Jaskier’s eyes widen and his scent sharpens bitterly as the man grabs his arm.

“I know it was you, you-”

He doesn’t get to finish his sentence, finding himself suddenly in the face of a snarling witcher reaching for his swords. Geralt didn’t want to have to cut him down, but seeing him lay hands on Jaskier-

“Darling, wait! There’s really no need for that. ” Jaskier grabs Geralt’s arm desperately, and they both stop to look at him. _Darling?_ “I’m sorry, sir, but you really must have the wrong person. This is my, ah, husband.”

_What._

Both Geralt and the lord freeze. “Your husband?”

Jaskier blushes but continues. “Yes. I’m sorry for any misunderstandings, but I can assure you I’m quite faithful to him. Right, love?”

 _Love._ Geralt manages a choked sound which could maybe be interpreted as an affirmative grunt.

“Exactly. So, I’m sure you can understand how it was definitely not me with your wife.”

The lord stares at Jaskier, and then back at Geralt. “I see. I apologize, I didn’t mean any harm.” 

Geralt hopes the lord has the sense to walk away, because he’s in no state to defend his bard right now. His hand is still reaching for his sword, and he has to mechanically put it down now that Jaskier isn’t in danger.

“Geralt? Geraaaaaalt?” He blinks and sees Jaskier waving a hand in front of his face. “Ah, there you are. Are you alright?”

“Why did you do that?”

Jaskier at least has the decency to look somewhat embarrassed. “I thought we’d agreed that we’d rather not be run out of town?”

“No, I mean-” He tries to consider his words carefully, a skill that does not come easily to him. For Jaskier, though, he tries. “I could’ve handled it. You didn’t need to do that.”

“Ah, well.” Jaskier’s cheeks are still tinted crimson. He fiddles with his ring, twisting it back and forth with calloused and slender fingers. “I didn’t want you to hurt your reputation on my behalf. No need to… burden you more, I suppose.”

Geralt hums, and Jaskier looks down. He’s no expert in communication, but this feels like an important moment where he should be using his words.

“You don’t- it’s not a burden. _You’re_ not a burden.” He pauses, looking down. “I don’t mind. Doing things for you, that is.”

It’s halted and poorly worded, and when Jaskier flushes deeply he wonders if he said the wrong thing. But then Jaskier smiles softly and says, “That’s… quite nice of you, Geralt. Thank you. I mean that.”

Geralt’s chest feels light, and the corners of his mouth twitch upward. Looking at Jaskier -the way his hair sweeps against his forehead, his startling blue eyes, his soft lips- it only makes the feeling swell, and he makes himself look away before he does something ridiculous.

“Well!” Jaskier claps his hands together. “If you’re not going to be heroically saving any damsels tonight, I think we’ve earned ourselves a night of revelry, don’t you? Come along, love!”

He’s given no chance to respond before Jaskier is weaving his way through the market once again. Geralt smiles to himself and thanks the sky for letting this day be alright after all. And, as for the fluttering in his chest- well, he’s sure he’ll have plenty of time to examine that later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have decided that writing during class is probably not a sustainable practise. Will that stop me? No.  
> My tumblr is @made-of-constellations if you wanna pop in and say hi or drop a prompt!


	2. Collars/Kidnapped

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The sentence goes unfinished when the collar suddenly tightens, cutting off his airway. He chokes, eyes widening and body writhing. He jerks against his restraints to no avail, blackness encroaching on his vision until finally the band around his neck loosens and he can gasp in heaving gulps of air.
> 
> “That’s a bit better, isn’t it?” The man laughs. “I have no idea how the witcher let you follow him for so long without doing that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I meant to post these on the first and then,,, didn't. So enjoy three prompts today!

When Jaskier swims towards consciousness, his first instinct is to shy away and keep himself in the dark. His head throbs uncomfortably, and his entire body aches something fierce. His shoulders are stiff and tender, and he really just wants to go back to sleep where he doesn’t feel pain. He does have some self-preservation instinct though, so he forces himself into wakefulness anyway. Immediately he regrets it, trying to lift his hand and soothe the pulsing hurt on the back of his head. Only, he doesn’t make it very far before his hand is stopped.

What in the hells?

That… cannot be good. He pries his eyes open with great dread and morbid curiosity. The room he’s in is small, maybe three or four meters each way. The walls are stone on all sides, and in the dark he can’t see any discernible entrance. The more he awakens, the more concerning his situation becomes- the stench of sweat and urine and blood hits him full force Most concerningly, his arms are being held above his head with heavy metal cuffs, just high enough for it to be painful even with his legs against the ground.

Well, fuck. This cannot bode well. 

Tugging against his bonds does nothing, and when he tries to move forward he finds his ankles are cuffed too. An awful lot of trouble, honestly. Jaskier’s vaguely honored that his mysterious captors thought he was worth all of this.

Speaking of. While he tests the strength of all his bonds he hears a grating sound on the wall to his left. His head snaps towards it (and ow, his neck is in pain too, is there nothing sacred?) to see some of the stones shifting and condensing. Jaskier’s no expert, but the way the stones rumble and melt away scream of magic and chaos. Which- well, that’s also not great for his current situation.

“Finally awake, are we?”

Through the door comes a muscled man with greasy brown hair slicked down the nape of his neck. His armor is black with a shine that speaks of rank, with a golden sun on his breast and oh, _fuck_. That is- well, that’s very bad news for Jaskier.

“This is a bit much, don’t you think?” Jaskier laughs nervously. “Not sure what you think a bard is going to do with all this.”

The man tilts his head and smiles. “Not just a bard. The White Wolf’s bard. We’ve been looking for you for some time, Jaskier. You’ve been quite elusive. Your fame, however, precedes you.”

Jaskier knows where this is going, and he doesn't like it at all. “I’m really not sure what the point of your flattery is, however much appreciated it is. Perhaps you’d like me to sign something?”

It’s a special talent of Jaksier’s to be able to grate on the nerves of everyone he meets, and he can see it happening right now. Good.

“You’re right, bard. No point in beating around the bush. I’ll ask you nicely one time; where is white wolf and his child surprise?”

Jaskier looks down and shrugs. “Dunno. Haven’t seen him since-” _since the mountain,_ “haven’t seen him in years.”

Now, Jaskier lived for eighteen long years before he met Geralt, and he knows he can live without him after, too. Still, every time he’s reminded of his witcher, he flashes back to amber eyes and white long hair and longing gazes and _if life could give me one blessing._

And it’s good, now, because Geralt sending him away has saved him and his lioness cub from Jaskier putting the two of them in danger. Not, evidently, that Nilfgaard cares about their falling out.

The man chuckles cruelly. “Yes, that’s what I thought you might’ve said. Still, I’m sure you won't mind me double checking.” He doesn’t know what the man means by that until he steps forward and puts his hands on Jaskier’s temples. So they’re even sending mages after him. They must be getting very desperate to find Geralt. 

Jaskier sits there patiently until the man leans back with a scowl, at which point he grins widely. “So, what’d you find? Perhaps you were able to enjoy some of my more _intimate_ memories?”

“Of course the witcher wouldn’t trust a foppish dandy like you with anything of importance. A complete waste of time, you are.”

“I’ve been told much worse in less words, so you’ll have to try harder if you want to rile me up.”

The man whips around and brings his hand across Jaskier’s cheek so swiftly it takes a moment for him to even process that he’s been slapped. He winds his fist up as if he’s going to hit him again, and Jaskier shrinks in on himself and waits for the blow.

“However...” The soldier stops contemplatively, and Jaskier does not like that tone at all. Slowly, a grin spreads across his face, but he doesn’t deign to address Jaskier himself. Rude, honestly.

“You know,” Jaskier says when the silence stretches. “I never would’ve taken you to be a mage before you read my mind.” 

“Appearances are often deceiving,” he responds absently.

“Right, yeah, I just thought that if I was that powerful I surely would’ve tried to fix that ugly mug by now.” Jaskier smiles. “Unless that’s your botched attempt?”

The man growls and Jaskier knows that he’s messed up, yet he can’t bring himself to regret it. “You _prattling good for nothing lowlife!_ You want me to show you what magic can do?” He snaps his fingers, and Jaskier tenses as he waits for excruciating pain. Instead, he feels a light pressure around his throat-- a collar, just tight enough to be noticeable. 

“What, is this a fashion th-”

The sentence goes unfinished when the collar suddenly tightens, cutting off his airway. He chokes, eyes widening and body writhing. He jerks against his restraints to no avail, blackness encroaching on his vision until _finally_ the band around his neck loosens and he can gasp in heaving gulps of air.

“That’s a bit better, isn’t it?” The man laughs. “I have no idea how the witcher let you follow him for so long without doing that.”

Jaskier barely listens to him, still caught up in the _everything_ that’s happening because holy shit this is serious. He glances up through blurry vision to see the man staring at him smugly. 

“What do you want from me?” He wheezes. The man glares pointedly, and when the band starts to tighten again Jaskier closes his eyes with a whimper. It isn’t as bad that time, but when it loosens he still gasps for breath. His face feels faintly wet. When he tastes the salt in his mouth, he realizes that he’s been crying.

“I’d stop talking if I were you.” The mage isn’t even looking at Jaskier, examining his nails disinterestedly. “As it happens, I’ve already heard more from you than I would’ve liked. I truly don’t understand how the witcher put up with you so long. It does, however, work in our favor this time.” 

“Wha-” The collar presses threateningly, and he snaps his jaw shut painfully.

“You’re doing better,” the mage says in mock approval. He tilts his head and steps closer to Jaskier, grasping his chin lightly and turning his head from side to side. The leer he gives him is decidedly much worse than the malice from earlier, and Jaskier leans away until his head thumps against the wall behind him.

“You cry so prettily,” he whispers. “Maybe that’s why the witcher kept you.”

Jaskier spits in his face, delighting in his disgusted flinch. “Go to hell!”

Maybe he doesn’t have that much self-preservation instinct after all, he thinks as his collar cuts off his air altogether. He thrashes against the restraints, but this time he isn’t let up. The spots dancing in his peripheral fill his vision until he slumps back into unconsciousness. 

___

The next time he wakes up he’s alone in his cell, though still restrained uncomfortably. They seem to be done talking to him because he waits there in the dark for an exceptionally long time before the wall opens next to him. It’s only to bring him a glass of water and stale bread, which he takes greedily when offered up to him. It’s the first sustenance he’s had since Nilfgaard captured him out of the tavern, but he regrets eating it so quickly when the maid leaves and he’s left alone again. He’s still wearing his doublet and trousers from when he was captured, but there’s only so long he can save his pride before he has to relieve himself through it anyway.

Even though he can’t see it, he knows the collar is still around his neck. Out of sheer boredom he tries humming one of his works, only to find that yup, the band still works when the mage is gone. Thankfully it doesn’t last nearly as long. He’d wager that whatever trick the collar responds to was enhanced by the mage, not being nearly as powerful on it’s own. Still, he’ll have to ask Geralt to do something about it when he rescues him.

Which-- yeah, Geralt’s definitely coming for him. Sure, it’s been years since they’ve travelled together, and yeah, the last time they saw each other was on the top of that awful mountain, and the last thing he’d _said_ to him-

He shakes his head. Geralt will come for him. He has to. The witcher is, despite what others will say, a good person, and he wouldn’t leave Jaskier if he had any idea that he was here.

Yeah. Geralt will come.

___

Only, he doesn’t that day. Or the next day, for that matter. It isn’t until the fourth day that Jaskier wonders if maybe they’ve been feeding him at random intervals to confuse him. There wouldn’t be much point to that- it’s not like he’s breaking himself out of here anytime soon- but Jaskier can’t help but think that if they would take away his voice even when he’s by himself then they probably would do all sorts of other cruel things too, just for the hell of it. 

So Jaskier can't say exactly how much time passes, only that it’s quite a bit. They never bother to remove his cuffs or his collar, treating him with the bare necessities. His body is in agony in some places and blessedly numb in others, he treasures the few minutes of company he gets from whoever feeds him, and in the dark he dreams of amber eyes and a steel sword breaking through the wall to save him.

He’s so used to the oppressive silence filled only by his own heartbeat and shallow breaths that he gets excited when he hears something like a clank ringing through his room. When nothing happens, he slumps down and realizes that he’s passed into the point of hallucinations, which is definitely not good. He absently wonders if that means he’s close to death when the entrance scrapes open once again.

Except, this time it’s not a maid.

In the doorway stands the one person Jaskier has wanted to see more than anything, heaving and covered in blood. He hopes to all the gods he doesn’t believe in that this isn’t a hallucination.

“Jaskier,” Geralt breathes, and Jaskier breaks down because gods, Geralt has come to save him. He’s crying quietly when Geralt raises his sword to cut restraints from the wall. As soon as his arms are free he slumps into Geralt, feeling all the pain rushing back into his arms. Geralt holds him up, and he’s close enough that he can see the golden eyes that he’s dreamed about. 

“Jaskier,” he repeats, and hearing it feels like coming home. “Jaskier, I’m sorry we couldn’t find you sooner, we heard that Nilfgaard had captured a bard and we came as fast as we could, but I should’ve been there, and--” he cuts off with a frown. “Why aren’t you talking?”

Jaskier has clearly missed some major developments in Geralt’s life because that’s the most he’s ever heard him communicate at one time and the first time he’s ever apologized to him. He doesn’t think he can move his arms without keeling over right now, so instead he tilts his head to the side and bares his neck to show the collar.

Geralt furrows his brows together, expression darkening. Shifting to hold support Jaskier with one arm, he gently hooks a finger under it, tugging softly. He stops immediately when Jaskier’s breath hitches. 

“Magic?” Jaskier nods, and Geralt grimaces. “I’m sorry. This never should’ve happened.”

Jaskier just shakes his head and waits for Geralt to get the damn thing off so he can reassure his self-deprecating witcher that of course it’s not his fault. With incredible precision, Geralt takes his dagger from his hip and catches the band under the tip. It hardly resists before it snaps and falls away. For a horrifying second, all of Jaskier’s breath leaves him, his eyes widening. Then it all comes rushing back, and Jaskier gulps in the air greedily. The air in the room is oppressive and sour, and Jaskier has never been more grateful for it.

“Jaskier?” Geralt asks with the most tender tone he’s ever heard.

Jaskier looks up with a huff. “Hi.”

The smile that graces Geralt’s face burns it’s way into Jaskier’s heart, and he can’t keep himself from pulling him into a weak hug. Geralt lets him, holding him up as Jaskier buries his face in his neck, completely uncaring of the many substances covering them both.

“Come to Kaer Morhen with me,” Geralt murmurs. “With me and Ciri. We’ll be safe there. I’ll keep you safe, I swear.”

There are so many things Jaskier wants to say to him-- thank you, I’m sorry, I missed you _I love you_ \- but it seems they’ll be time for that later. For now, he just smiles and says, “Okay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, writing during class is Not a Good Idea.


	3. Grand Gestures

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So Geralt also can’t help but notice when he meets up with the bard that something is most definitely wrong with him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All caught up, everything should be posted on the day it’s written now!

Against his better judgement, Geralt has become quite used to the presence of his bard.

It’s one of the last things he expected to happen when he met Jaskier in Posada- he is, for all intents and purposes, the opposite of what Geralt should need and want in a travelling companion. He’s loud, incorrigibly outgoing, and absolute shit with a sword. And yet, Geralt can’t help but notice the way he feels lighter around him, like Jaskier has taken a weight off his shoulders. Geralt had spent decades building walls around himself, and it seems like all at once Jaskier has barreled through them and found an odd and perfect place at his side.

So Geralt also can’t help but notice when he meets up with the bard that something is most definitely wrong with him.

Geralt had been lingering around the area that Jaskier mentioned going to before they’d parted, finding him several months later around early autumn in a town just north of Vengerberg. The first thing he’d noticed was that Jaskier was not performing at the tavern he found him in, despite the imploring looks the owner was sending him or the heavy coin purses that rested on the hips of the patrons. Instead, he was sitting rather moodily in a corner, his lute case untouched at his feet.

“Jaskier,” Geralt greets, sliding on to the bench across from him. Jaskier snaps out of his daze and brightens considerably.

“Geralt! Lovely to meet you here.” 

“Hm.” Now that he’s looking at him, he can see light bags under his eyes. Knowing Jaskier’s obsession with his skincare routine, that must mean something. “Why aren’t you performing?”

“Ah, well.” Jaskier glances down and taps his loot case with his foot. “Wasn’t quite feeling up to it tonight.”

Geralt narrows his eyes slightly, but doesn’t say anything as a young woman comes over and serves them both ale without asking. He’s eager to let the alcohol warm him for the night, but Jaskier eyes it warily.

“Have you got a place to stay tonight?” Jaskier asks, and Geralt shakes his head. “I’ve got a room upstairs for at least two more nights if you’re interested. Two beds and everything.”

“Thank you, Jaskier.”

His head snaps up. “Right, what’s gotten into you?”

He’s half tempted to say something ridiculous like _‘I’m happy to see you’._ Instead, Geralt smiles into his ale. “I won’t be thanking you again, bard.”

It feels easy to fall back into their dynamic even after months apart. Jaskier looks better than when Geralt first walked in, but it’s really not saying much. He’s not worried, per say, it’s just that- well, Jaskier is only human, Geralt really has to be ready for anything to happen. He wants to ask, but he honestly has no idea how to. Geralt may protect them both in the wild, but Jaskier’s always the one to look after Geralt in the end. He has no idea how to reciprocate, other than to stick by him and hope it gets better. 

When they retire to their room later that night properly drunk (well, Jaskier’s drunk and Geralt watches with amusement), Jaskier nearly falls over kicking off his shoes and has a comical amount of trouble undoing the ties on his doublet. Geralt’s fingers twitch with the inexplicable urge to help him with it, which-- okay, Geralt might be a little bit nervous about his bard’s subdued behavior, but that’s a bit ridiculous. He resigns himself to watching him collapse into his bed out of the corner of his eye while he undresses. By the time he gets into his own bed, Jaskier is already snoring.

That night, Geralt falls asleep cold and aching for something he doesn’t quite understand. 

___

It’s worse when he wakes up the next day. Geralt rises with the sun as usual, and sees Jaskier in his own bed sniffing and shivering, curled in on himself despite the heat already in the room. It’s… unnerving to see him so small and vulnerable, and Geralt finds he very much does not like it.

They’re really long past certain personal boundaries, which is why Geralt has no qualms about putting one knee up on the bed and pressing the back of his hand to Jaskier’s forehead. Jaskier murmurs and his sleep and leans into the hand slightly, before his eyebrows draw together and his eyes slowly flutter open.

“Ger’lt?” He mumbles, and his voice sounds wrecked. “Are you alr’ght?”

Geralt frowns. “You’re burning up.”

“I am?” Jaskier seems to become more aware of his surroundings-- namely, the fact that Geralt is in his bed, which seems to be confusing him quite a bit. Geralt grimaces and steps back.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were sick?”

Jaskier sits up and sniffs loudly. Geralt can see more now, like how his nose is blushed red and how his vividly blue eyes are watery and irritated. “I thought it would, I dunno, go away overnight.”

“You should’ve said something. I’ve got enough coin for a healer, but-”

“Woah, Geralt.” Jaskier puts his hands up. “I’m quite sure it’s just a cold. I was wrong about it being gone by this morning, but it _will_ go away. I’m fine, I promise.”

Gerlt’s lips turn down. His chest feels heavy and he’s unusually apprehensive. “I’m going to get you a bath. You stay here.”

“Geraaaalt,” Jaskier whines as he watches him get dressed. “Don’t leave.”

“I’ll be back, Jaskier. You just rest.”

He forces himself to ignore Jaskier’s pout when he leaves the room. On some level, he recognizes that it most likely is just a cold and that he’s probably mother henning him a bit. But Geralt also knows that Jaskier is prone to forgetting that he’s only human, and that he can be very susceptible to any disease. So maybe a bath isn’t enough, he reasons after he speaks with the innkeeper. He hears the sounds of a market being set up in the distance, and gets an idea.

It starts out reasonably enough. He finds Jaskier a thick and practical cloak for the weather that will hopefully keep him from getting sick in the future. He even finds one that he thinks Jaskier will like, with an intricate design spanning the inside in subtly shimmering thread. The detailing costs extra, but if it will get Jaskier to wear it then it’s worth it.

It was only his intention to find a cloak for Jaskier, but then he sees a woman peddling small bottles of tea leaves advertising different health boons. He thinks of Jaskier’s raspy throat and how much he’ll have to put up with him complaining if he loses his voice, and decides to invest in a few soothing mixes. The same woman is selling bath salts and oils, which of course also remind him of Jaskier. It’d be worth it to buy some less offensively smelling ones for Jaskier if they’re going to be traveling together for a while.

He’s starting to understand how Jaskier can get so lost in the market when he finally decides to return to the inn with his satchel overfull. There was even a bakery on the way that was selling discounted goods from the day before, so now he holds warm bread in each hand when he gets back to their room to see a pantsless Jaskier struggling to get his chemise off.

“Geralt! What took-” He stops short with his shirt half unlaced. “What do you have there?”

“Breakfast.” The way Jaskier lights up makes his heart flutter, which he pointedly ignores. The bath has already been brought up to their room, and he looks emphatically at it.

“Yes, yes, I’m working on it.” Which, he is, but it’s exceptionally clear that he’s struggling to get undressed. Geralt’s already come this far, what’s one more leap? 

Jaskier narrows his eyes as Geralt approaches, before they widen comically when Geralt starts unlacing his shirt for him. When he finally gets it off him, Jaskier just stands there dumbfounded and very naked. He shakes his head with a slowly spreading grin. “Right, bath. On it.”

Jaskier slides into the water with an obscene noise. Geralt unveils his choice in bath salts (much to Jaskier’s obvious delight) and hands him his breakfast, but largely leaves Jaskier to bathe himself. When he’s all dried and dressed, Geralt decides to unpack his satchel.

“What is all this?” Jaskier asks excitedly, picking up one of the tea mixes and sniffing it. Geralt shrugs.

“For your throat.”

He nods slowly, then picks up one of the bottles of bath salts. “And that?”

“You know what bath salts are, Jaskier. These are the least awful ones I could find.”

“Geralt, you big sap!” Jaskier seems absolutely thrilled with his goodies. “If I’d known that all it took was getting a cold to get spoilt I would’ve laid out in the rain years ago!”

Geralt chucks the cloak at Jaskier’s face with enough force for him to fall backwards on the bed. He almost feels bad, until he springs right back up with a soft laugh. 

“Seriously, Geralt. You didn’t have to do all this. It really is just a cold.”

“I know.” He looks down, feeling suddenly overwhelmed with looking into Jaskier’s eyes. “I just- I wanted to do something… nice. For you. That is, I-”

Jaskier catches him off guard by wrapping him in a firm hug. “I know, darling. And it means the world to me.”

Something melts away in Geralt’s heart, and he thinks he might finally understand it. His arms wrap around his bard of their own accord while he buries his face in his hair with a soft smile.

Later that night, they forgo the notion of separate beds and settle into one together. Jaskier looks significantly better, much less pale and snoring softly. Geralt is overwhelmed with the instinct to protect him, to keep him safe and away from harm. He wonders if Jaskier truly knows what he means to Geralt, if he knows that he’s decimated Geralt’s defenses just by existing with him, if he knows that he’s one of the most important people in Geralt’s life. 

Ever so softly, Geralt wraps Jaskier up in his arms and smiles. Soon, he’ll find the words to tell him how much he means. Until then, Geralt is more than happy just to live by Jaskier’s side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What do you guys think so far? Once again plugging my tumblr @made-of-constellations. I’m not feeling super inspired by any of the prompts for tomorrow, but I promise I’ll get something out. Love you all!


	4. Bodyguard AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt laughs softly and… wow. Jaskier is really into this roughed up look he’s got going on, even with the blood splatters on his dark armor. He holds out a hand to Jaskier, who takes it silently as he’s pulled up to face him.
> 
> His eyes really are the most incredible thing Jaskier’s ever seen.
> 
> Geralt raises an eyebrow. “Were you hurt?”
> 
> Jaskier feels his face heat up. “No, I’m- fine. I’m fine.” Geralt hums, taking his hand back from where Jaskier didn’t even realize he was clutching it still.
> 
> Fuck, this may be a bigger issue than he thought.
> 
> AKA: 3 times Geralt saves Jaskier's life +1 time he doesn't have to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I woke up and checked comments today and,,, just about died. Thank you guys SO MUCH for all the lovely words. It seriously means to the world to me.
> 
> You may notice that the chapter count went down by one. That's because I posted yesterday's (day 4: presumed dead) separately because it got so long! It's "What's Engraved Upon My Heart (In Letters Deeply Worn)" if you missed it. Enjoy day 5!

1.

As the King of Lettenhove, Jaskier’s had a bodyguard with him for as long as he can remember. He’s pretty sure his nanny doubled as one, as he recalls the old woman having an unusual affinity with blades that one doesn’t generally require of a caretaker. Lettenhove is a rapidly growing kingdom and, as such, the number of people after Jaskier’s head seems to grow every day. 

His newest bodyguard is incredibly promising. A witcher, Jaskier was sure, though he’d never really bothered to confirm. But who else could have those strikingly amber eyes and astonishingly strong senses? And those _muscles,_ gods. Geralt could probably crush him with his thighs alone. Why he agreed to his offer of ‘royal bodyguard’ was beyond him, but he definitely wasn’t complaining. 

“Stop staring,” Geralt grumbled, and Jaskier snapped his gaze back to the window of the carriage with a laugh. 

“Apologies. You’ve just got such interesting-” he gestures vaguely, “-you know, _visage.”_

Geralt grunts and looks away. Nobody else dares to speak to Jaskier (or Julian, as most everyone in the kingdom calls him) in that manner, and something about Geralt’s insouciance makes his heart flutter. 

Well, that and literally everything else about the man. Yikes, Jaskier is so gone on him already.

Geralt’s only been in his service for a few months, but in that time he’s shown no interest in Jaskier’s rather unsubtle advances. Jaskier most definitely wants him to- the idea of a tumble in the sheets with Geralt makes _other_ parts of him rather bothered- but he’s also very aware of the power imbalance between them and doesn’t want to push him.

As it is, Jaskier thinks that he can be content with just admiring his witcher from a distance (or, well, from the three feet between them. Semantics).

Geralt turns towards him like he’s going to snap again when he stiffens and stares out the window. His eyes widen imperceptibly. 

“Wha-”

Geralt puts a hand on his back and shoves him to the floor of the carriage. He twists and lands on his side, watching Geralt unsheathe his sword as they screech to a halt. Just where Jaskier had been, an arrow is embedded into the seat.

“Stay down!” Is all he gets before Geralt is leaping over him and out the window.

The telltale sounds of a battle ring through the air, and Jaskier’s half tempted to disobey Geralt just so he can get a peek. Self-preservation wins out, so he stays low until the sounds fade away.

“Geralt?” He slowly rises to a crouch, intent on glancing out the window when the carriage door flies open and he falls backwards out of shock.

Geralt laughs softly and… wow. Jaskier is _really_ into this roughed up look he’s got going on, even with the blood splatters on his dark armor. He holds out a hand to Jaskier, who takes it silently as he’s pulled up to face him.

His eyes really are the most incredible thing Jaskier’s ever seen.

Geralt raises an eyebrow. “Were you hurt?”

Jaskier feels his face heat up. “No, I’m- fine. I’m fine.” Geralt hums, taking his hand back from where Jaskier didn’t even realize he was clutching it still.

Fuck, this may be a bigger issue than he thought.

2.

For all the drama of his big revelation that he might actually be in love with his bodyguard, Jaskier doesn’t actually do a whole lot about it besides some hold reverence for him. It’s… pretty painfully obvious that Geralt has no interest in him like that, and Jaskier would hate for him to feel like he has to reciprocate his feelings just because he’s the king. So he shoves his feelings aside, just like his parents taught him.

Despite all this, he and Geralt do become closer over time. Weeks stretch into months, which stretch into days until he blinks and suddenly he can’t imagine what life was like without Geralt at his side. It’s the longest he’s had one bodyguard in quite some time, and he couldn’t think of anyone better to fill the job than him. He asks Geralt one day about why he stays; when he first hired him, he only required a year of his service. He shrugs and says something vague about having nowhere else to go.

It breaks Jaskier’s heart, and he resolves to make sure that Geralt has somewhere to call his home for as long as he needs. His pining will just have to be set aside.

He often stays up composing at his desk, writing in a small leather bound journal that he doesn’t think even Geralt knows about. It’s filled with poems and half baked songs and, on some pages that are results of drunken nights, letters that he fantasizes about sending to Geralt. Tonight is one such night.

The candle is long since burned out, so he sits by the window where the moonlight can reach him. He has to fight a yawn as he dips his quill in ink again. This poem is _almost_ done, and once he has a first draft finished then he’ll go to bed and let himself revise it tomorrow. It’s a silly thing- all of his poems are, really. But he treasures them dearly, and he likes to think that maybe one day he’ll present one of them to Geralt.

A soft creak catches his attention, his gaze darting to the doors. There’s nothing there.

“Geralt?” He asks softly. Sometimes, the witcher will come in to check on him or tell him to sleep, the overbearing nanny. But as far as he can tell, Geralt’s not there.

A movement out of the corner of his eye has him snapping to face the balcony doors, and his heart skips a beat when he sees a shadowed figure standing in the open doorway.

Jaskier surges to his feat, stumbling over the chair and gasping. In a flash, the figure is at his front, one hand over his mouth as he pushes him backwards until he’s bent over the desk uncomfortably. He doesn’t even process that the other hand is holding a knife to his throat until the tip settles under his chin.

“You will come with me, and you will come with me quietly,” the figure whispers, and Jaskier can hardly hear it over the roaring in his ears. When the point presses against his neck harder, he nods as much as he can without stabbing himself.

The assassin removes the knife from his throat as he digs around in his cloak, and Jaskier edges to the side until he gets a sharp glare. But fuck, he can’t just go with him!

He’s running out of time. The assassin shoves him around harshly until he’s facing the door, and he feels the knife at his back. “Go.”

In a last ditch attempt, he lets his foot catch on the chair as he walks. It scrapes loudly against the floor, piercing the silent night air.

“Fuck,” the man hisses. He pushes Jaskier towards the balcony with more force. Gods, he hopes that’s enough, that the noise woke somebody and they can get here before-

“Jaskier!” The door slams open and _oh thank the gods,_ Geralt is here. He clearly came as soon as he woke up, still wearing a nightshirt and smalls with his hair carelessly untied. He’s never looked more beautiful.

The assassin swears, glancing towards the balcony and then back at Geralt as he makes a quick decision. Jaskier realizes too late that he needs to move, and it’s not until the knife is arcing towards him that he thinks to scramble away.

It never reaches him.

Geralt tackles the man with a snarl, sending both of them tumbling to the floor. Geralt doesn’t have his swords on him, fighting with his bare hands, and Jaskier almost worries until a well placed elbow to the head knocks the man out cold. 

Geralt turns to him and clambers over. He’s still on his back, wide-eyed as Geralt reaches him, moonlight shining through his hair as it hangs around them.

“Jaskier? Can you hear me?”

He blinks slowly. Hears the sound of others entering the room. “Hi,” he says smartly.

Geralt’s eyebrows furrow together, and then his hands are all over him and this is really too much for Jaskier’s human heart to handle in one night. 

“Did you hit your head? Or did the knife get you? You might be concussed.”

Jaskier props himself up on his elbows and tries really hard not to think about how Geralt’s bare thighs straddle his own, or about how his chemise dips to reveal a scandalous amount of chest, or about how his hands feel sliding down his sides and around his head and fuck that didn’t work at all.

“I’m fine,” he chokes.

Geralt narrows his eyes, sitting back and letting Jaskier up as he’s swarmed by other guards. It’s decided that he must be checked out by the infirmary anyway, and Jaskier just nods along dumbly as the image of Geralt standing with his billowy chemise in the balcony doors burns it’s way into his mind.

3.

Geralt decides to tighten up security after that- stationing guards around Jaskier’s room and the grounds underneath it at more frequent intervals. He debates putting a few guards in his room too, but Jaskier adamantly insists that he still needs _some_ privacy. Still, he finds Geralt peeking into his room much more often after that. 

Tonight, Jaskier has been invited to a ball. It would theoretically be nice if it were not hosted by the most pretentious and corrupt diplomats he’s ever had the displeasure of working with it. King Aldred- an old, pot bellied man that puts more thought into the menu than his people’s descent into poverty- seems set on annexing Lettenhove, and every time Jaskier firmly denies his attempts he just smiles condescendingly, like he’ll see the light eventually. 

Jaskier’s only consolation is that Geralt has to come with him, no matter how much he doesn’t want to either. And so that’s how they end up here, side by side at a dinner table laden with food and wine. Jaskier’s always been a diplomat, but doesn’t deign to use his skills here with such awful people. There’s only a few of them there- a few minor nobles that fit right in with this crowd. Several of them try to make conversation with Geralt, only to be met with grunts and hums. It is at the very least entertaining for Jaskier when they look at him as though they expect Jaskier to reprimand him, only getting more frustrated when Jaskier smiles politely back. 

At least the wine is good and seemingly never ending. Jaskier doesn’t think he could get through this evening without it. 

The king still hasn’t brought up the topic of Lettenhove yet, even though Jaskier knows that’s the only reason he was invited. He’s in no hurry for them to start the conversation, but he also does kind of wish that he would let them get it over with rather than making them withstand this awful pretense of poise and discretion.

He leans as subtly as possible towards Geralt. “What do you think the odds are that Aldren passes out drunk before we have to negotiate?”

Geralt huffs a laugh through his nose. “You’re one to talk. That has to be your fourth glass.”

“What, this?” Jaskier lets another servant boy refill his chalice. “It’s got to be the strongest wine I’ve ever tasted. I do feel a bit unusually drunk, now that you mention it.” He blinks slowly as the room seems to slide.

“Jaskier?” Geralt’s voice is suddenly gravely serious. He looks from Jaskier to his drink, snatching out of his hand before it topples to the ground. He sniffs it and winces. “Fuck!”

The dinner party screeches to a halt at Geralt’s unsavoury language, but Jaskier finds that he rather doesn’t care right now.

“Geralt?” He asks, surprised by how heavily his tongue sits in his mouth. His throat is rather dry too, which is odd considering he’s been drinking all night. 

“Who had the wine?” Unsurprisingly, everyone raises their hands. None of them look any worse for wear, however, which means…

The distinct clatter of a dish being dropped rings through the room, and Jaskier vaguely recognizes the boy who’s been refilling his wine all night as he takes off out of the hall. He can’t tell much more than that, because everything in the room seems to be blurring together and oh, he thinks he’s falling.

“Jaskier!” Geralt’s eyes are so pretty, he thinks. But he wishes they weren’t so worried. He absently brings a hand up to cup one of his cheeks before he’s being lifted into strong arms and his head lolls. “Jaskier, stay awake.”

“Slow down,” he murmurs, because he’s really not a fan of being jostled around so much, especially not with how much his head aches. Hm, that wasn’t like that earlier, was it?

All at once everything stops, and he has to blink three times for the world to clear enough for him to see that he’s been dumped into a bed in the infirmary. Geralt is frantically searching for something, and Jaskier realizes that this must be pretty serious.

“Geralt?”

“Be quiet, Jask.”

“Geralt.”

“I’m serious.”

“Geralt, _please.”_

He finally turns around, and Jaskier wants nothing more than to wipe all that fear off of his face. Geralt doesn’t deserve to be afraid. He deserves happiness and safety and comfort, and it occurs to Jaskier for the first time that he might not be around to bring him that for much longer. 

“Jaskier, I just need to find the cure. They have to have it here somewhere. _Fuck,_ where is the doctor?”

“Mhm.” He turns onto his back, resting his hands on his chest. Geralt must find something, because he starts mashing it into a paste fervently at the table. Seconds or hours later, he rushes to his side with a bowl. 

“Eat this, Jask.”

He doesn’t have as much control over his face as he’d like right now, and Geralt seems to realize that because he starts scooping it out with his leather gloved hand and putting it directly onto his tongue. Jaskier chokes on it, tears welling up in his eyes and gods he just wants this to be over.

“I know, I’m sorry,” Geralt murmurs, and that won’t do at all.

“‘S okay,” Jaskier says. Geralt forces another scoop into his mouth, rubbing his throat as he tries to swallow. They repeat the painful process until the bowl is empty.

“What now?”

“We wait.” Geralt grabs one of his hands and holds it, which is nice of him. Oh, he should probably tell him that.

“It’s nice,” he slurs, which is probably not enough information for Geralt because he just looks even more worried. “Wait. Listen, Ger’lt.”

“I’m here.” Gods, he looks so sad.

“I love you, mm’kay? Always have.”

Geralt swallows thickly. Opens his mouth, maybe to say something back. Jaskier doesn't get to hear it, because everything becomes very painful all at once and it seems much easier to just fade away.

___

The darkness is heavy and silent, a welcome nothingness after being so overwhelmed with pain. He stays there for a long time, not quite sure where to go. He thinks a lot, even if it’s not very clear. He thinks about his mother, her striking blue eyes and her twinkling laugh. He thinks about Lettenhove, about running through her streets as a child and taking care of her as an adult. He thinks about Geralt quite a bit. He wonders how he’s doing, and if he’s happy. He doesn’t think that he is right now.

It’s that thought that pulls him out of the total abyss. 

When he wakes up, he’s in much less pain than he expected. A bit sore, yes, and his chest aches terribly, but it feels like a simple cold rather than a near death experience. He pries his eyes open and winces at the light. It takes him a second to recognize that he’s in the same infirmary that he was earlier, the same bed, even.

Most importantly, Geralt is sitting in a chair pulled up to his bedside. His arms are crossed across his chest, his head drooping down. He looks quite uncomfortable, to be honest.

“Geralt?”

Jaskier’s voice is raspy and quiet, but it’s enough. Geralt’s eyes snap up, widening when they meet Jaskier’s.

“You’re awake,” he rumbles. He helps Jaskier to sit up, lifting him and placing a pillow behind his back.

“What happened?” He asks once they’re situated, and Geralt frowns.

“Belladonna in your wine. The guards caught the one who did it while you were out, said something about you ruining his family's livelihood with the gold policy.”

Jaskier rolls his eyes. “Right. Because making sure they’re not using literal slave labour is ruining their livelihoods. I’ll be sure to keep that in mind.”

Gerlat chuckles, and the sound brings light to Jaskier’s life.

“So everyone’s alright then?” Geralt nods, but he looks… strained. Worried, still, even though Jaskier’s clearly okay. “And you?”

“Me?”

“Are you alright, Geralt?”

He looks at Jaskier carefully. “About… what you said. Do you remember?”

He’s half tempted to say he doesn’t, give both him and Geralt an easy out. He doesn’t, instead pursing his lips and nodding. Geralt slumps, looking relieved which he guesses made sense. He probably didn’t want to have to hold it over Jaskier’s head.

“Jaskier, I-”

“It’s okay, Geralt. I know you don’t feel the same way, and I will never hold it against you. I just hope that it doesn’t change anything between-”

He’s cut off by a warm press of chapped lips to his own. His mind screeches to a halt. Geralt’s lips. Touching his own. Kissing, in fact. 

Geralt pulls back, staring apprehensively. “I love you too. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t you dare apologize!” Jaksier snaps, before cupping Geralt’s head in his hands and pulling him back in for another kiss. This one’s more confident, Geralt putting one knee up on the bed as he slides his hands down Jaskier’s sides.

Jaskier leans back for breath. “Wait. Do you really mean it?”

He huffs a laugh. “Yes, I do.”

“Good.” He peppers kisses across Geralt’s face, connecting the dots like he's dreamed of for so long. “Good, because I’ve loved you for so long and I might’ve just about died if I had to go any longer without kissing you.”

Later, when the doctor shows up to check on Jaskier, Geralt insists that the flush spreading from his face down to his chest must just be a side effect from the poison. 

+1

Geralt and Jaskier are almost never seen apart after that. Granted, that’s not much different than how it was before- honestly, it’s a wonder neither of them realized the other loved them any sooner. Jaskier also decides to open formal audiences where he can hear the words of his subjects himself. Once a month, people are free to enter a queue in the castle where food is provided until their turn to speak directly with their king. It’s Geralt’s professional nightmare, honestly.

Like now. The woman who enters the chambers is clearly angry, and also clearly a sorceress. Two things that do not bode well, in his opinion. Jaskier insists on hearing her out- he always does, the kind-hearted fool. 

“What do you wish to speak about, miss…?” He looks the very image of a proper king with the way he sits upon his throne.

“Gurnsey.”

“Miss Gursney. What issue do you bring forth?”

“My issue,” she says. “Is that you’re an incompetent buffoon is not fit to rule.”

Jaskier blinks. “Ah. I see. Well, if you have any _specific_ complaints-”

Geralt sees the chaos forming around her too late, the blast already headed straight for Jaskier. He reaches her just as it explodes across his chest in a burst of color. He waits, dreading Jaskier screaming as some horrible curse befalls him.

Nothing happens. She stares, dumbfounded.

“Was that- did that do something?” Jaskier waves a hand in front of his chest.

Geralt grapples with her as guards pour into the room, but she puts up no fight. “I don’t understand. You should be writhing in agony!”

“Perhaps it'd be useful to know what it was supposed to do?” Jaskier asks helpfully. She sighs, as though the question is a terrible inconvenience while she’s being put in cuffs.

“What it was _meant_ to do was poison your heart until you meet some incredibly specific criteria. True love, or something.”

Geralt huffs out a laugh, and Jaskier grins. “Ah, well, haven’t got much to worry about there then. Thank you for stopping by!” 

Gods, Geralt loves him.

Later, when they lie together in a tangle of limbs in Jaskier’s bed, Geralt asks him about it while he traces the length of his spine with his finger.

“Are you sure you’re alright?”

“Completely.” Jaskier rolls over and presses a kiss to Geralt’s nose. “It’s a good thing I have such a strong bodyguard to protect me, hm?”

Geralt smiles and presses their foreheads together. “Hm. Good thing.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this came out late. I've stopped writing during class so much because, you know, school. I finished this at 11 last night and decided to wait to post it. Hopefully it won't happen again!
> 
> Once again plugging my tumblr @madeofconstellations. If you enjoy any of these chapters, they're also posted over there if you want to reblog them!

**Author's Note:**

> I have decided that writing during class is probably not a sustainable practise. Will that stop me? No.  
> My tumblr is @made-of-constellations if you wanna pop in and say hi or drop a prompt!


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